


Dead Man's Party

by Cluegirl



Series: HP Drabbles [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles featuring Lord Voldemort and various playthings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'And my soul from out that shadow which lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.'

People don't realize it, when they look at me. They see a hard man, a slick man, ambition and pride personified. They see a winner, a survivor, one who will always wile his way out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death with nary a hair out of place.

And do you know what? They're right. Because Death has looked me in the face as I spilled my pureblood seed into the hand of a mudblood, as I twisted on a cock older (and stronger, wilder, fiercer, hungrier) than my fathers'. Death looked up at me with green eyes and dark hair, and white, white teeth. Death smiled and stroked my face, and called me his own.

And I shall fear evil ... nevermore.


	2. These have one purpose and they give their power and authority to the beast.

Some nights he likes the muggles. They are a physical puzzle to him, of bone and blood and the polyphony of screams. They interest him on an intellectual level even as they stimulate another, baser animal within. This does not bother him especially. Animals are useful, after all. He quite likes animals, in fact -- especially when they bleed.

Other nights he likes the half-breeds, the mudbloods, and the blood traitors. These are more of a stretch to the imagination to thrust deep into their minds and twist his hooks where thowe who ought to have known better never imagined they could be hurt. Because he knows hurting quite intimately, and never really tires of watching its transcendence at play in fading, glazing eyes.

But most often these days, he likes his own. He craves the tight coil of pain and passion that flows in from the marks that brand them all as his. They burn and clash like furious stars when he orders them all together -- he can almost taste the licking flames in their efforts to devour one another. He walks among their glistening forms, stroking fingers over a sweating back here, a bleeding flank there. Whispering a name, catching a tear on one finger to salt his tongue with knowledge, with mastery, with proof that these tigers wear his saddle, all.

He does not ever plan to dismount.


	3. On my planet I had a flower; she always was the first to speak

His skin is flawless, never showing a bruise, scratch, or suck mark to the light of day. His nails are manicured several times each week -- neither smudge nor speck nor smell lingers. Blood spatters neither his clothing nor his sheets -- his environment is all of satin and silver, ivory and smooth, pale leather.

He is silent always, and does not smile, except to flirt and flatter. His tongue has other business than words now. He wears a diamond ring which glitters like true love's grief even in the softest candlelight, brightly defiant as he submits, surrenders, spreads himself to his Lord.

And when the spunk is cooling on his belly and he aches all over, when his hair is a wild tangle and red shame scorching his cheeks and his wrists, he thinks on she to whom this ring had belonged. And only then does he ever speak.


	4. Left Hand of Darkness

"Let me see it."   
Soft, that voice, sibilant like oil soothing rainbow taint across clear water. It makes him shudder far more than the sweat between his shoulders, or the come drying on his thighs and belly.  
"Surely you remember what it looks like?"  
Fingers, dry and smooth as they sidewind across his shoulderblade.  
"It's beautiful," the split tongue tickles his ear, makes his guts clench with fear and longing, "and it's mine. Why wouldn't I like to look again?" Smooth, hard warmth presses rustling along his side -- no trace of sweat there, no animal musk. Only basking heat, and satin scale that make him shudder closer and hate himself for it. It strips away all chance of pretending he does not serve -- does not desire a monster.  
"Show me."  
And Severus rolls onto his back, hard again, braces his scarred left arm across his eyes,  
And waits.


	5. And the Rat eats the Snake.

He wasn't there when Godric's Hollow burned.   
He didn't see the cursefire that scoured away the ghost of his innocence. 

He'd felt it tingling in his high, tight balls as the Dark Lord's withering voice haunted his ears, and tightened his fingers like claws around his cock. He came in avada kedavra green.

He didn't want to be there when Voldemort regained flesh and form and shadow at last, but the parseltongue dreams and Grim nightmares had hounded him to it. And afterward, his silver hand felt smooth and snakeskin cold when it bled his guilty cock dry.

But when the brighter serpent shouted the old, cold voice down to ash, when the body fell, and the munchkins began to dance, he was there, lurking, waiting. And when darkness found the dark lord clay cold and rather... stiff, well he was there too. Satisfying his gnawing hunger at long last.


	6. Thou shalt have no God before me.

He is careful never to say the names. Never to let a breath of *Potter* or *Black* or *Lupin* drift across his mind. Not when he kisses the hem, the ring, the scaly-cold hand, or the hard, hot cock. He creeps and he spies and he licks and he bends for his Lord with never a ghost of refusal. He can't afford pride, a traitor like him. He can't afford dignity.

He sold those rights with the secret he can't forget -- the betrayal that should be burned into his forehead like the mark of Cain. He knows on some level, that he will never be trusted, no matter how many limbs he amputates. He grovels and accepts the name of Rat, and smiles, and smiles, and pretends to forget; because the instant Voldemort glimpses the shadow of regret in his mind, he will once again be nothing but "Betrayer".


End file.
